cry "Ehippy"--ship; the Queen
stepped forth on her verandah, shading her eyes under a hand that was a
miracle of the fine art of tattooing; the commandant broke from his
domestic convicts and ran into the residency for his glass; the
harbour-master, who was also the gaoler, came speeding down the Prison
Hill; the seventeen brown Kanakas and the French boatswain's mate, that
make up the complement of the war-schooner, crowded on the forward deck;
and the various English, Americans, Germans, Poles, Corsicans and
Scots--the merchants and the clerks of Tai-o-hae--deserted their places
of business, and gathered, according to invariable custom, on the road
before the club.

So quickly did these dozen whites collect, so short are the distances in
Tai-o-hae, that they were already exchanging guesses as to the
nationality and business of the strange vessel, before she had gone
about upon her second board towards the anchorage. A moment after,
English colours were broken out at the main truck.

"I told you she was a Johnny Bull--knew it by her headsails," said an
evergreen old salt, still qualified (if he could anywhere have found an
owner unacquainted with his story) to adorn another quarter-deck and
lose another ship.

"She has American lines, anyway," said the astute Scots engineer of the
gin-mill; "it's my belief she's a yacht."

"That's it," said the old salt, "a yacht! look at her davits, and the
boat over the stern."

"A yacht in your eye!" said a Glasgow voice. "Look at her red ensign! A
yacht! not much she isn't!"

"You can close the store, anyway, Tom," observed a gentlemanly German.
"_Bon jour, mon Prince!_" he added, as a dark, intelligent native
cantered by on a neat chestnut. "_Vous allez boire un verre de biere?_"

But Prince Stanila Moanatini, the only reasonably busy human creature on
the island, was riding hotspur to view this morning's landslip on the
mountain road; the sun already visibly declined; night was imminent; and
if he would avoid the perils of darkness and precipice, and the fear of
the dead, the haunters of the jungle, he must for once decline a
hospitable invitation. Even had he been minded to alight, it presently
appeared there would be difficulty as to the refreshment offered.

"Beer!" cried the Glasgow voice. "No such a thing; I tell you there's
only eight bottles in the club! Here's the first time I've seen British
colours in this port! and the man that sails under them has got to drin